


Something Like Lust

by orange_8_hands



Series: Nails and Teeth [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Gen, POV Female Character, POV Male Character, POV Outsider, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Rape/Non-con References, Self-Esteem, Sex, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:02:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_8_hands/pseuds/orange_8_hands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been watching her all her life, or at least once she got curves. (girl!Dean and girl!Sam)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for whole work: Mentions child rape, mention of abortion, underage drinking, a brief fantasy that can be read as non-con (ch.5), gendered insults, and lots of talk about sex.

What were you going to do, leave your daughters alone, leave them unprotected from all the things that don't even always hide in the shadows, in the dark? Where could you leave them that would be safe enough, that you could always get to them in time because now, now you know what to look for, now you know there's _something_ to look for. So you bring them with you, tethered to your side, and Dee watches over Sammy and watches you teach her how to shoot, how to fight, how to slice and burn and kill, and she watches other hunters, stays up too late and sneaks around so she can listen to the conversations you don't want her to hear, not quite yet. She watches Sammy and she watches you and she watches civilians and hunters and monsters and you, you are her father and you watch her, because Mary laid her in your arms and she didn't even have to say anything, face still slick with sweat, red from excursions and popped blood vessels, you knew your most important goal in life was to protect your family, and (even if you failed once) you will do that to your dying breath. 

You watch and it still comes at you sideways, surprised like, she's twelve, she's not your little girl (fingers squeezing triggers into soda cans and clasping Sammy's hand, was she ever your little girl after the fire?) and you leave a book on puberty on her bed, painstakingly stolen and not just because you couldn't afford to waste money on extras like that, not when you can keep Sammy happy with Salvation Army rejects and Dee in comics so you have enough for the important books - Latin chants and monster lore and fairy tale origins. You leave the book on her bed and don't mention it, hoping she gets it like she got the rest of it, like she got cooking and cleaning and watching over Sammy, like through osmosis, and you never see the book again and she's already in charge of food shopping and clothes shopping so when bras are suddenly added to laundry, when tampons are suddenly added to the cart, well, you're not the one putting them there so it's all fine, and she can explain this to Sammy when the time comes because you don't think you have it in you to ask another sales rep what a good book on _woman's changing bodies_ would be.   
  
She watches Sammy, even though she complains, bitterly, because she wants to go on hunts, or hang out with friends her own age, or just spend five freakin minutes alone, _dad, come on_ , but you come back from hunting and a Shtriga is over fucking Sammy and Dee has the gun cocked but she's not fucking shooting, face pale underneath her scattered freckles, and Jesus, Dee, Jesus, how did it get past you, and you never want to frighten your daughter like that again but she has to fucking learn, she has to watch Sammy, Jesus Christ Dee, are video games really more important than your sister's life? She watches Sammy, and half the time she's like a miniature mother, cleaning Sammy's face and packing her lunch and making sure homework is done and dinner is ready, bigger portions on the nights you're able to make it back, and the other she is a cruel older sister, pulling on Sammy's pigtail braids (usually the ones she did before they left for school, because left to Sammy's hands and the things would be loose by the time they made it across the threshold) and poking her fingers into Sammy's sides and insulting her with a new nickname every five words and doing something with a clown that makes Sammy scream the next time they stop at McDonald's, you don't even want to know. She watches after Sammy in between those moments though, those moments when having a little sister tag along is apparently a fate worse than death (your daughters are little fucking drama queens sometimes, and you have no clue where they get it because it sure as shit wasn't from Mary), because that's the bottom line, that's what you have to get into her head and muscles and bones, into every line and every word of her, because that demon killed Mary and she did it in Sammy's room and you still don't know what the location means, if it really is connected or not, and you can't take a chance with your baby girl, no fucking way.   
  
You watch Dee follow along, building awareness a layer at a time, learning how to scan a room, learning how to find all exists of any place you enter immediately, because you never know when or what shape you'll have to leave it, watch her build up a Sammy-scanner, like the one you have for them, a little part of her brain always tracking her baby sister. You watch her and you watch the people who interact with her, the civilians and hunters and witnesses and victims (when it's a kid sometimes its easier for Dee to coax the information out while you distract the parents) and when she's twelve, when she starts to have subtle curves to go with those too big lips and too pretty eyes and too vulnerable looking face, you watch her and you watch the world and oh, you think.  
  
Shit, you think.  
  
_Mary_ , you think.  
  
She's always known more than she should and that's your fault, you can admit it even if you can't be sorry for it, because it's the only way to keep her safe, the only way to protect her and Sammy from what's really out there, and maybe sometimes you forget she's only five, only nine, only twelve, maybe you forget for all she can hit the target every time, for all the dirty little tricks you've taught her in hand to hand, for all the drills you've run stressing rational thought and not unrestrained emotion to fight with, maybe you also forgot she is still small, still fragile bones and easily bruised skin and budding breasts. You forget she is anything but just Dee, cursing too much and a smile that can light up a room, you forget she is just a small girl until you see men who take down werewolves and wendigos and rawheads, you see men who pit muscle and brain against monsters, against nightmares and win, you see these men watching your daughter a little too closely, a little too strongly. You look at Dee's face, you see her back to a wall and one hand close to her gun and one hand on Sammy and waiting for you to finish your deal, eyes moving across every man in the place, and you realize even worse, she knows, she _knows_ what those men and those grins mean, and you wonder what else you missed. You gave so much thought to the supernatural and not to the humans, not to those towns you leave before finishing the job because it turns out not to be witches, not to be rakshasas, just regular humans in all their cruelty and the police can deal with them, the police know to hunt them and you don't have time to do even more of their job for them, and you want to throw up when you suddenly wonder how safe she ever really was from anything.  
  
You wonder if this is a lesson mothers teach.


	2. Chapter 2

You learn to trust your instincts, fast, because they're the only thing between you and a lot of what wants to eat you, and yeah, you don't just mean monsters who think you'd make a good breakfast cereal. When you are nine Dad sits you down and expands on his strangers-may-try-to-kidnap-you speech, and watching your father try to explain pedophilia without using any word remotely tied to it would be funny if it wasn't already two years too late, whoops, can't win them all. But you got your practical lesson and you watched the video in your fifth grade class (twice, actually, because half the time you move to a new place you're re-learning the old stuff and the other half they're so far ahead of you you can't be assed to crack a book open and pretend to catch up, not like you really need to know what the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Who-Gives-A-Fuck are when you're a hunter) and you explain it to Sammy in simple words so even _she_ gets it and seriously, trying to explain things to your sister should put you up for hazard pay, Sammy with her fucking why why why. Weren't kids supposed to grow out of their annoying phase?   
  
You have sex - that didn't count, okay, that didn't fucking count - for the first time when you're thirteen. You've been rocking the (admittedly small but still growing) boobs for a year now, you got the sexy swagger as part of your every day arsenal, and you know you look good, look hot (heard it enough fucking times), you got lips and eyes and freckles and according to more than one boy across the middle schools of America you know how to fucking kiss, hell yeah, time to step it up a notch. You decide on Patrick Hassen because his younger brother passes you purple bubblegum during class, and you like Tommy, sure, but you'd be surprised if he's done more than kiss his Great Aunt Bertha, and according to the gossip you've overheard it's better if one of you knows what they're doing, and that's not you yet. Patrick seems perfectly happy to help you out (and maybe you don't mention the virgin thing because boys are really stupid about shit like that, talking about being your first like they won some fucking prize) and it's not great, not really, but you definitely see the potential. You still make sure to lecture Sammy on the importance of masturbation a few years later (no way is this just for guys, they can only get off once, and you're record so far is five in an hour) because no fucking way is she having sex yet, you're not even sure if she's kissed a boy yet, and there's no reason to be deprived of the awesomeness of orgasms just because she's a fucking prude and needs to be in love or some shit like that. (Sex is sex, sex is fun and dirty and free, and love is family, love is the weight of your mother's death and your father's vengeance and your sister's terror, love is the smell of pie and your car on the road and the loud beat of the best songs, love has nothing to do with the bars and alleys and motel rooms and back seats across the country.)  
  
You're on birth control and you always use a condom, because no fucking way are you getting pregnant, no fucking way. You've watched enough Maury and Jerry Springer and other daytime crap to know what happens to pregnant teens, and besides, there's no fucking way you're explaining to your dad you can't burn the corpse, you have morning sickness. Besides, the only grandchild dad's getting is coming out of Sam's vagina in about twenty years, because ok, ghouls have nothing on how utterly revolting childbirth is. (When you're nineteen you make sure the next hunt you all take is in a woman's right to choose state, and since your dad can't imagine why you'd fake being sick to get out of zombies - and fuck, why did it have to be zombies, why couldn't it have been a black dog, you hate those - you spend the weekend actually following a doctor's instructions for once and take it easy, no way do you want to collapse and have dad check you over for _these_ injuries.)  
  
When Sammy is sixteen and the biggest bitch on the planet, you start to stick condoms in her backpack and send boys her way because obviously your lessons on masturbation haven't worked, or she wouldn't still have that stick up her ass. When that doesn't work, you have a very uncomfortable moment thinking about who you were more turned on by in the last threesome you had and send some cute, dorky looking girls her way too (if Sam wants Ms. Nerd, then that's what Sam fucking gets, okay?), but that just causes Bitch Face #323 (aka you're-being-surprisingly-open-minded-and-I-want-to-reward-you-but-you're-still-so-gross face), so finally you just start pointing to random dudes and asking for her type.  
  
"Come on, fuckable or not?" you ask, nodding your head to the high school boy in the crosswalk in front of you. Your music is low and your windows are down and you still have a slight ringing in your left ear (fucking poltergeist) so maybe you're a little louder than usual, and Sam turns beat red and sinks in her seat when the boy turns around and leers, which just makes it so much better.  
  
"I hate you, Dee," she says, and punches your leg when you start to laugh. She's actually got some muscles building up now, and of course she manages to get the edge of a bruise (seriously, fucking poltergeist) and it hurts, so you flick her ear until she bats your hand away and sits up.  
  
"Can't you just leave it alone?" she says, sighing, but come on Sam, you're sixteen, and you just look at her because when have you ever left anything about her alone, and finally she scrunches up her face and points discreetly to some white, blond, blue eyed guy, definitely tall because Sam is tall and getting taller and self-conscious about it, won't ever wear heels, but basically the same looking dude you've hustled a thousand and one times in college bars. Generic, with that corn-fed-aw-shucks (or depending on the light, let's-salute-Hitler) look, and at least Sammy won't run out of guys wearing that face.   
  
"Ok," you say, and tap out some bars of Zeppelin on your steering wheel. "I can work with that."  
  
Sam looks at you with dawning horror, like she just remembered you're her older sister and made it your goal in life to get her laid.  
  
For some reason she is entirely unamused when you hand her a vibrator and a picture of James Van Der Beek later that week and tell her to practice.


	3. Chapter 3

You weren't going to have kids, and that's the one fight you had with your wife, the one thing you didn't know how to say yes to, not even for her. You hate that your last memory of her isn't swirling in your arms in a pretty dress, or cupping your cheek when she brought you dinner, or a thousand and one moments of your wife and her sweet smell, like flowers, but of that fight, of you saying no, no because you know what kind of father you'd be, you know what kind of life you'd give your kid, and you can't do that to them, you can't do that to some innocent kid.  
  
There's a part of you - that you will never say out loud - that is incredibly gratified that John trusts you with his girls, that his girls like being with you. You are one of the chosen few, you and Pastor Jim and Caleb, and Ellen back before John killed Bill, and according to Dee you are "fucking awesome" and Sam hugs you with all her strength every time she visits, and scolds you about your healthy habits (you have eaten more damn vegetables because of Sam than even Karen got you to), and every time John takes them back you want to punch him, for not letting them just be damn kids, for taking them away, for getting them in the first place.   
  
"Dude, I got us movies," Dee says, coming into the house and shouting, even though you are right fucking there, she is the loudest creature you've come up against and you're including banshees on that list. "And," she adds, holding up the plastic bag clutched in her left hand, "take out because if Sammy eats that chili again I'm gonna kill one of you, I don't even care who, seriously Bobby hold the beans next time, yeah?"  
  
She still has grease on one cheek and looks all of twelve, if that, because she never wears make-up when she's here, says she doesn't need to look older when she's here (and you've seen her with all the works and she passes for twenty-one, passes for the bars and the rest of the job), and it's funny because you're the one who got her that first make-up kit, wanted to give her something besides the weapons John usually got her as a present for her birthday.  
  
"Shut up, Dee," Sam says, blushing bright red, and you fight the smile because it embarrasses Sam (maybe embarrasses you too, a little), and she takes the movie bag from Dee to look through and then makes some tragic face and you do grin. "Where's Homeward Bound II?"   
  
"Yeah, Sammy, I really wanted to watch dogs run across San Francisco, but sadly the video store was all out, such a shame, but hey, look at what I did get."  
  
Sam's face grows thunder. " _Independence Day_ ? _Die Hard_ : _With a Vengeance_ ? _The Rock_ ? Dee!"  
  
"Yeah, Sammy?"  
  
"These are all action movies."  
  
"Well duh," she says, drawing out the last word.  
  
"These are all movies only _you_ want to see."  
  
"Bobby wants to see them too," Dee protests, but you raise your hands when they both turn to you.  
  
"Don't be idjits," you say. You do not get between the girls, you do not take sides, you learnt that lesson early.  
  
Sam's face goes another level of tragic and Dee sighs, rolling her eyes to your ceiling. "Ok, ok, Jesus Sammy, stop with the face, I may have gotten you something," she says, and pulls out a movie she hid in the take out bag. It's called Toy Story and has a bunch of animated toys on the cover, and Dee crosses her eyes at you because you both know that's the first thing you're gonna be stuck watching, and you'd never tell Sam but Jesus you'd prefer _Independence Day_ .  
  
But Sam smiles her biggest grin and hugs Dee as she rolls her eyes and lifts her hands in exasperation and just as obviously enjoys the shit out of it, and then snatches the movie out of her big sister's hands and runs to the living room to get it set up.   
  
"I totally deserve beer for that," Dee says, and you smack the back of her head, but you get the both of you beers anyways because you're not sure you'd rather watch talking toys than some damn dogs running around San Francisco.  
  
"Trust me, it could have been a lot worse. She really wanted to see Pocahontas."  
  
You shudder. There are some things you won't do for even Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

Everybody is in love with your sister.  
  
Like most things in your life, it sucks.  
  
Your sister is fucking gorgeous and knows it, flaunts it, wears the shortest of shorts and the tightest of tank tops during summer, runs around with most of her skin showing and in her favored black boots. She never kept her hair long but when she was fourteen it got in the way of a hunt and now she keeps it pixie cut short, which just means everybody can focus on her eyes and her lips and her freckles and not get in the way of her soft, soft hair. (You won't let her cut your hair, and part of it is because it pisses Dad off, even though you keep it in a tight bun when hunting - you aren't suicidal, you don't want it getting in the way of a hunt, don't want a creature to be able to grab it and use it in a fight - but really it's because there's no way you can pull it off like your sister, and you don't even want to try.) You're actually better than her at make-up (girls wear make-up, it's normal, and can almost make up for the shitty clothes and sneakers you're forced to wear, makes you look less like a poverty-reject), flipped through enough magazines left in Laundromats to pick up tips you diligently practice in the mirror, but even at your best you still feel ugly compared to your sister's smudged eye liner and carelessly wiped on lipstick.  
  
Sometimes when you're brushing teeth side by side you'll just look at her, try to figure it out. It's not that you aren't pretty (you think, you're pretty sure) and you definitely have what would be classified as a good body, considering you have a fitness regime football players probably cry about, even if you're too tall and you feel self-conscious about your boobs (which are bigger than Dee's, you were smug to discover), but you rarely get attention when she's in the room. ( _She moves like sex_ , you overheard a guy tell his friends. _Fuck I'd like a piece of that._ ) It's not that you want the attention, not that attention, you're happy wearing jeans and your slightly too loose t-shirts (you just don't like the _holes_ ), you just want to blend, but you can't deny it gets annoying when Dee pulls whatever gaze you maybe, kind of want on you.  
  
And then they find out she drives an Impala in mint condition and fixes cars and likes beer and sex and eats food like she's auditioning for porn, they discover she's basically the heartland's version of a walking sex dream, and once they find out she's your sister they are suddenly nice to you, suddenly notice you, and then their _girlfriends_ notice you too and being a new student, being a geek, being shy becomes a thousand times more horrible because teenage girls are worse than any supernatural creature you've ever helped your family research. You've seen the shows on TV and they are not even close to the reality of high school, and all you can do is bury your head deeper in books. It never changes, whether you actually go the same school (more common than you would think, a lot of small towns you spend a few months here or there in share a middle and high school) or not, because she still usually walks you home (what are you, five?), still picks you up in the Impala when dad doesn't need it.  
  
(And you prefer it, of course you prefer it, because as much as she taunts you about the geekhood of your study habits, as much as she gives a running commentary on what she's doing whenever she cooks or cleans, as much as she drags you out to bars or fairs or whatever there is to do in whatever town you landed in, as much as she sings in the morning like the worst alarm clock ever, at least she's there, at least it means she's safe and not with dad tracking down creatures that want to kill them.)  
  
She leans against the doorframe as you get ready for your double date (and when will you learn not to bet her about her shooting skills and stick to the rock-paper-scissor she _always_ loses when you disagree?), watching you curl your hair with one of the few useless ( _when you are gonna need a curling iron for hunting?_ Dad asked, completely missing the point) appliances you carry. She's in jeans and a tank top and boots and Dad's old leather jacket, and she's so casually gorgeous you falter in the mirror. She walks up to you and takes the curling iron from your hand, starts to do your hair for you, and you are reminded of a million and one pigtails she used to make for you, reminded of being sick and having her stroke your hair gently, reminded of all the times she used to sit behind you to watch TV and play with your hair while you did homework.  
  
"You're so beautiful, Sammy," she says softly, sliding the last bobby pin in place.  
  
"Yeah?" you ask, catching her green eyes in the mirror.  
  
She leans her chin on your shoulder and contemplates your image. And then she smiles, your favorite smile, because only a select few get to see it and you've always been at the top of that list, her sweetly shy smile.  
  
"You look just like mom," she says, and suddenly, you are beautiful.


	5. Chapter 5

She's fucking hot and you're thinking about bending her over the pool table, just shoving right into her and slamming down, she doesn't have hair you can hold so maybe you'll just grab her hands and keep them on the green velvet and you watch her bend over each shot, watch her ass in those tight fucking jeans and watch her breasts sway under her low cut top and you want to spread her against the pool table and be balls deep in her, fuck her hard and fast and dirty and then next time she can put those cocksucking lips to good use and you can imagine pushing your dick into her mouth and just going, fucking wild, slamming into her tight throat, and every time she slides by you, against you, you catch her fucking scent and feel her smooth skin and you want her hands, want her mouth on your dick, want to push your cock between her tits and shoot all over her fucking face, she looks like a fucking porn star, hot fucking lips, you want to ta-  
  
"That's the game," she says, and you blink in surprise, come back to yourself and a raging hard on, notice all her balls are in the pockets. She picks up the fifty you laid on the table earlier, you remember making some joke about girls and cue balls and her just smirking at you.  
  
"Hey," you start to say, because she's already dismissed you, already turned to the crowd to find another opponent, "hey aren’t we go-"  
  
"Don't be a sore, pathetic loser," she says, the fucking bitch, the fucking cunt cocksucking fucker, and then her eyes catch yours and she smiles, not that fucking smirk you saw earlier, not a leer, this is a psychotic bitch smile, and you slam the pool cue down and leave because fuck if you want her boiling puppies and stalking you, fuck her and her tight ass, fuck your still there hard-on, and you go find some other woman to blow you in the alley and you don't come back the next night hoping to see her in a skirt instead of those painted on jeans and you definitely don't spend the next three months jacking off to those fucking lips.  


End file.
